Deadly Diversion: A Medical Thriller (28 page)

“Give!” Lucille screamed. “We gotta give, she says,” Lucille yelled to the crowd who by now had grown silent. Turning back to her former colleague, she said, “That’s what nurses have been doing since Florence’s time. Don’t you think it’s about time we get?"

A rent-a-cop swaggered over to them as I scooted inside. Tim gave me a nod, but no smile. Just as well. If we had to share the next two hours, there was no reason to get into an argument ourselves.

As the nurses entered, they signed in at the polling table, handed over their eligibility slips, were checked off on the master list, and received a ballot. Similar to the city voting a few days ago, they took the ballot to a booth opposite the polling table, and when they had finished voting, they dropped their ballots into the locked box manned by a security officer. Tim, representing the union, and I, for management, were there to monitor the process. We stood behind the polling table but we were not supposed to talk to anyone or to interfere unless a problem emerged.

Who could have put that package in my door? Did any other manager get a booby-trapped delivery today? If that had happened, surely the word would be spreading through the grapevine and someone would have said something to me by now. Could it have anything to do with the union fight? Other than Tim and possibly Laura, I hadn’t argued with anyone about it.

A rumbling from the back of the line brought me back to the present. A woman pushed around the group clustered by the door. “I got this in the mail,” she said, thrusting her voting notice in front of the polling staff.

“You have to wait your turn,” the union representative working the table said.

“I’m not waiting. I want to know why I got this.”

“What’s the problem?” I asked, moving up behind the table at the same time as Tim did.

This time an administrator spoke. “You can’t vote. You’re not on the list.”

“I don’t want to vote. I don’t even work here anymore. What I want to know is, why did I get this?”

“Why are you here?” I asked. “Why didn’t you just toss it out?”

She waved it in front of me. “See. This number here.” She pointed to a machine-inked four-digit number in the right hand corner. “It must be numbered for a reason, and I thought you should know about it. Maybe something fishy is going on, or else somebody’s really unorganized. I just wanted to help.” With that, she turned and marched out, those in line pressing back against the door frame to let her pass.

The administrator initialed the notice. She handed it to the union representative, who added her initials and put it in a box on the floor.

Tim walked out with me when our shift was over. We were both quiet until we reached our cars. I turned to him. “Whatever happens, Tim, I just want you to know, I hope we can still work together.”

He popped the lock on his Xterra and stood looking at it. The bruise on his face was a smudge of gray. He’d recently had his hair cut; a narrow light strip showed above his tan.

“Soon it’ll be over,” I went on. “And regardless, I’ll abide by the rules and work with the union.”

“If we get a union,” he said. He opened the door.

The latest polls had the union and the hospital tied.

“You hear about her latest stunt? Judyth’s,” Tim said. “Yesterday after the surveyors left she called a meeting of RNs, no managers.”

“So?”

“On work time. That’s not allowed by the NLRB.” The National Labor Relations Board. “We can’t meet on work time and neither can the hospital.”

“Did you go?”

“At the last minute, she cancelled it. I won’t quit,” Tim said, sliding into his Xterra. “How would I pay for this?” he added, patting the door frame. He squealed around the corner and down the ramp.

I didn’t know if he meant he wouldn’t quit fighting or wouldn’t quit his job. I hoped the latter.

I decided to go back into the hospital. Paperwork had been piling up all week, and I had a phone call I needed to make.

Peggy stood at the information desk using the phone. She hung up with a sour look as I approached.

“Something wrong?”

“My car. It won’t start.”

“Can I help?”

“Thanks, but no. My brother’s on his way.”

“Peggy, I have to tell you about Lisa.”

“I already know.” She stared out the entrance, unseeing. “Didn’t I tell you?” She left, her slow steps echoing down the eerily silent hall.

Suddenly I was exhausted. But there was one thing I wanted to check before I left.

I wanted to see if someone could get in or out of ICU without walking through the main doors. The hallway that circled around the rooms of intensive care, originally intended for fire safety, also allowed family members entry to patients’ rooms without going through the central part of the unit. Such a design kept them from getting in our way, especially now, when we were always in a hurry. But after the previous murder, administration had decided the doors should be kept locked from both sides.

Most of the doors in the hospital shut automatically in case of fire, in order to prevent a blaze from spreading. But only the ICU doors were locked. If fire broke out in ICU and we couldn’t escape through the main doors, we and our patients would be trapped inside. I had argued with Judyth, but it hadn’t changed her mind. They had to decide what was the greater risk, and administration had opted to keep strangers out and us locked in. But maybe they’d changed their mind for some cost-cutting reason. We were all so busy we’d never notice if a door had been unlocked, inadvertently or not.

After checking with Jessie that everything was quiet in ICU, I stepped into our one empty room and made my way to the fire door. It was locked. I went back out of the unit and around to the outside and checked all the doors. Locked. No one could have entered ICU this way.

TWENTY-FOUR

Saturday, 18 August, 1745 Hours

I DECIDED TO KEEP my appointment at the spa. Actually I had forgotten I’d scheduled it until I got home and listened to the message reminding me. My staff had bought me the gift certificate for my birthday in July, and Serena kept asking me if I’d gone yet. Finally, I had set it up several weeks ago, and then forgotten about it.

By the time I found the salon in far West County—I didn’t know Olive Boulevard became Clarkson Road out west—I was frazzled enough to be glad I was about to have a massage.

The receptionist offered me some herbal tea while I waited. I was alone in the reception area, which was momentarily quiet. Yellow roses spilled out of a vase, releasing a faint floral scent. I sipped my tea, let my eyes soften, and took some long, slow breaths.

The receptionist called my name and the masseuse, whose name tag read “Jan,” led me into a room with a sheet-covered table, told me to undress and lie facedown with the sheet over me while she waited outside.

Waiting for her return, I let myself relax. A side table held a cluster of votive candles, a trickling tabletop waterfall and a collection of lotions and oils. New Age music played in the background. I had almost drifted off to sleep when she came back in.

Jan asked if I was comfortable and if anything in particular bothered me. I quelled the urge to tell her—I was certain she didn’t want to know my real troubles—and pointed to my neck and shoulders.

She warmed some aromatic oils in her hands, and I took a deep breath, letting the scent surround me. She pressed and pulled with sure, strong strokes, and I felt myself relaxing into the movement she made of my body. Suddenly, I had an overwhelming urge to cry. Feelings rushed over me in waves and sadness leaked out in my tears. She stopped, gave me some tissues and said she’d be back in a few minutes.

By the time she returned, I felt more peaceful than I had in days. I gave in to her soothing ministrations, my body relaxed, and I floated somewhere warm and comforting. She whispered for me to turn over, and I settled back into my reverie as she rotated my ankles, pressing hard on the balls of my feet.

Then it hit me. I jerked my leg free but Jan pressed it back down and continued massaging up my leg. I knew what Lisa had meant. I tried to relax again but my mind was reeling. Jan seemed to take forever, massaging each arm in turn and moving to my head. Her fingers dug into my scalp and I felt as if I were pinned to the table like a butterfly on a mat.

What to do? How could I find out for sure?

Jan slid her hands down to my neck, squeezing taut muscles with practiced precision. Positioning her fingers at the base of my skull, she pulled my neck into alignment. My vertebrae clicked into place with a gentle pop, the pieces in my mind tumbling into position as perfectly as my spine.

The room was quiet; she was gone. I sat up quickly, feeling dizzy, forgetting she had told me to rise up slowly. I sat still for a moment, then dressed and hurried out. I knew what I had to do.

TWENTY-FIVE

Sunday, 19 August, 0556 Hours

It WAS ALMOST SIX when I pulled up in front of Bart’s house and parked in the shade of a tree. The sun had poked through the leaves of the overhanging branches and a gentle breeze sent droplets of dew plopping onto the hood of my car. I sat for a few moments while Black Beauty’s engine cooled down and I screwed up my courage. Bart had insisted on working last night, Jessie had told me. He said he’d rather keep busy. I knew I had until 7:30, at least, and probably longer until he had finished charting and drove home.

A woman dressed in a halter, shorts and clogs walked a miniature white poodle down the street away from me, and a man came out in his boxer shorts and bare feet to grab the Sunday paper off his lawn before hurrying back inside.

I got out of the car cautiously and tried to shut the door without making noise, but it wouldn’t catch. I pulled it open and slammed it, cringing at the noise it made. But no one came out to see what it was. Just act normal, I told myself. A small giggle bubbled up but I swallowed it. I needed to keep my wits about me. It wasn’t every day that I broke into someone’s house. I had found the key in my lab coat pocket this morning and that had cinched it.

Lisa had used a syringe to take the drug. That much I knew because it had been lying on the floor beside her. And she would have drawn it up from a vial, a vial that had been nowhere in sight when I’d found her! That was what I had realized on the massage table. It had been years since I’d seen morphine in a vial instead of a Tubex. When Lisa had said, “It’s in the bag,” she must have meant her drugs but, if so, where was the vial she’d used? And where did she get it?

Inside, the house was silent. And empty. A fine dusting of black fingerprint powder covered most surfaces. I peeked out the front window just to be sure no one had noticed me, but only a lone bicycle rider pedaled by.

I started in the living room, sliding the sofa out from the wall and reaching along the baseboard. Nothing there. Then I went from chair to chair, moving each one aside, searching under and around them, and replacing them in the same spot so that the dents in the carpet lined up with the legs. I reached around the legs of the three side tables in the room but I found only some dust balls caught in the fold of the carpet.

The dining room was next but there was nothing in it except some packed boxes and a stack of books. No bag and no vial anywhere.

In the only bedroom a stack of uniform scrubs rested on a cedar chest and on the dresser were a few odds and ends that looked like the detritus from someone’s pocket or purse, and a woman’s wallet. I hesitated a moment. The vial wasn’t in the wallet, that much was certain. I decided to take a quick peek inside. It was disappointingly ordinary, containing not much more than a driver’s license and nursing licenses.

I sifted through the mail sitting on the dresser. There was a letter to Lisa from the Missouri State Board of Nursing congratulating her on receiving her license to practice nursing in Missouri. The rest was junk mail advertising continuing education programs for nurses, already-approved credit cards and an introductory subscription to a local magazine.

I checked my watch. I had been in the house for almost thirty minutes. And I hadn’t checked the bathroom or kitchen yet.

Neither the medicine cabinet nor the linen closet contained anything stronger than aspirin. Only a few dishes, some mismatched silverware and two battered aluminum pans were in the kitchen cabinets. Some packaged food was stored in the pantry along with a few cans of soup and a six-pack of Diet Coke. The milk in the refrigerator looked fresh but it was the only food that did; a ripe banana was a squishy brown and a cut lemon had grown mold.

What could she have done with the vial? She had to have drawn up the syringe from some container and it had to be somewhere.

I went back through the house looking for wastebaskets. There were only two. The one in the bathroom held a crumpled tissue but it wasn’t hiding anything. A fresh plastic bag was in the trash can in the kitchen. I pulled it out and dumped the can upside down. Nothing.

I took one last look around the house, nervous shivers creeping up my neck as I realized I’d been inside for nearly an hour. Bart would be home from work any time now. I locked the door behind me, scurried out the door, and down the sidewalk toward my car.

“Hello there!”

I jerked around. Bart’s neighbor stood on her front porch holding on a broom.

“Is he doing okay?” she asked, giving each step a swipe with her broom as she came down the stairs. “I haven’t seen him since last night. Poor thing. He looked a mess then.” She shook her head. “She was so young. I can’t imagine why she’d—”

“I think he’s doing as well as can be expected,” I said when I’d gathered my wits about me. “I’m sorry, I’m in a hurry.” My hand shook as I unlocked the car door. I gave her a quick wave as I pulled away.

TWENTY-SIX

Sunday, 19 August, 0726 Hours

“MY GOD, GIRL, what’d you think you were doing?” BJ asked. “What if he’d come home?”

We’d met at Uncle Bob’s Pancake House after I’d awakened her.